Melancholy bivouacs
on my threshold,
patient as the march
of implacable time.

It waits,
keen-eyed and swift,
to harry me
with lethargy
and gloom.

The old ache hovers,
ready to descend
on the unguarded moment,
the unsuspecting hour.

Constant vigilance
erodes my will,
but thr persistence
of darkness unbidden
summons me to arms.

Susan Dean Wessells